Boxing Day 1956, the day I stopped being a child. I was six years old.
It began late Christmas Eve when mum came home drunk. On the way back from the Red Lion she’d fallen on the ice, breaking a heel and snagging her best stockings. She needed someone to blame and I was the obvious choice. Told me Father Christmas didn’t exist and I wouldn’t be getting any presents. Turned out she was right on both counts.
By the following Christmas, she was dead, a mixture of drink and drugs – and I’d grown into the cynic I am today.
A 100-word story for this week’s prompt from Friday Fictioneers.
Photo courtesy of J Hardy Carroll
The enormous mechanical arachnid watched on from the shadows. As he eyed the two large pods hanging from the ceiling, oily saliva dribbled from his fearsome jaws. Very soon the first cracks would appear in those silver shells and the tiny infant humans inside would emerge. He knew that their first instinct, after being enclosed for nine months in that shell, would be to eat. With their eyes still closed their sense of smell would attract them to his steely web smothered in the milk from a human female. He savoured the prospect of his first decent meal in days.
A 100-word story for this week’s prompt at Friday Fictioneers.
Photo courtesy of T © Victor and Sarah Potter
We found them in a large shed on the edge of the forest. A hat and a scarf for every child in our village, all left here and arranged in these tidy piles. It seems the children left their houses at the same time, late into the night. Nobody heard or saw them go. Wrapped up against the cold winter snow, they’d all made their way to this place, but why? And where are they now? Somebody living nearby thought he heard a pipe playing last night. And this morning the Pied Piper is also missing. Surely just a coincidence?
100-word story for this week’s prompt at Friday Fictioneers
Photo courtesy of Björn Rudberg
One of the terms often used to talk of the dead is ‘loved ones’. It made me think of this 100-word story.
We stood huddled in a small group and watched as the rain danced on the coffin lid.
Despite the lousy weather, we’d all come to make sure you were really dead.
Anthony, eyes lowered, was remembering the daily beatings you had given him. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders as memories of your nightly visits to my room forced their way back into my mind.
According to our old neighbour, you illness had given you a lot of pain over the last six months. Something I was heartened to hear.
We’re so glad you’re no longer with us Dad.